My Immortal
by UndergroundValentine
Summary: Fall of 1804 in the prime of his career, violinist Thomas Joseph Ratliff is living the high life of the century. But being haunted by regret and anguish, all he longs for is peace of mind and one more chance. -Adommy-


Couple notes~

This oneshot is set in the year 1804. Tommy is more formally known by his full name, Thomas, and is a renowned violinist. Adam is an opera singer.

Anytime there is a section of the story in italics (_meaning the words are like this_) then it is a memory.

Anytime there is a section of the story with **bold** colon signs starting and ending the second (**:::** meaning there is story here, blah blah blah. **:::**), then it is present time in Adam's perspective.

And that's really about it. :p Enjoy!

* * *

><p>Fingers of his left palm pressed to the strings, he moves his right hand in a rhythmic motion. Back and forth, changing the angles, changing the melody little by little. His eyes are closed and the flames of candles and torches are keeping the vast breadth of the room warm. He shifts his index, middle and pinky of his left hand, down the neck some, playing high and soft. Soft, yet sorrowful.<p>

The theater is silent with the exception of his song, of the music flowing from his fingertips. His eyes clench a little as he concentrates, gritting his teeth together in his jaw. His fingers tighten some around the neck, pressing harder. Calluses and scars mar his fingertips, healed over so many times he can hardly feel the sting of the gut anymore.

Biting his lip, he drops his hand, playing low and somber notes, feeling his heart twist as he jerks his hand. The notes are harsh and the tone dark, but this is nothing new, truly. He keeps his lip between his teeth as he clenches his eyes further shut, playing quick and angrily. The candles feel hot as sweat gathers on the back of his neck, but he can't pay mind to it.

All too soon, perhaps, the hand holding the bow of his violin drops and he opens his eyes, staring out at the seas of faces and hands, applauding. Some women have tears in their eyes. Some men are pounding the ends of their canes respectfully into the floor. He plasters a smile on his face and takes a small, short bow. His hair falls a little into his eyes as he stands back up, nodding to the patrons in continued thanks.

They're muttering as they stand. Some women throw their roses onto the edge of the stage, fanning themselves as they leave with their men. He watches them, most all arm in arm with one another and talking gently. His heart gives a twist as he watches a young blond lady accompanied by a tall man with dark hair leave, their words fluttering into his ears.

"Beautiful performance, wasn't it, love?"

"Yes, I quite thought so…"

"The chords were perfect…"

"It was a little too haunting for my taste, but it was so passionate…"

"I thought it was wonderful…"

"His technique is exquisite…"

They're all the same, the comments. Thomas hears them from the outer hall as lords, ladies and nobles disperse from within the theater and out to the cold night. Stagehands come in quickly, putting out the candles and giving the stage around him one final sweep. He moves when they ask him to, but otherwise remains on the stage in silent solitude as they work.

When the last stagehand locks up the doors leading out to the hall and disappears through the back door of the stage, he continues stands alone on the dark of the stage with a single flickering candle off to the left as the only light left. A "ghost light" as the technicians call it. To keep the spirits of the theater at bay. A wives' tale, truly, but he doesn't mind it.

His eyes slowly scan across the dark, empty velvet seats, the gold and silver backings, the columns etched with ivory leaves and roses, the ornate lamps that have been extinguished for the night; the glass bowls are still warm, he assumes. The high ceilings that curve and arc to form a dome, paintings of angels within them. They're all shadowed in darkness. He sighs softly, clutching his cherry-glossed violin in his left hand around the neck. The bow is hanging loosely from the curve of one finger.

On any other night, he would have left with his patrons and lords, discussing side jobs and private recitals for better pay, more nobility. On any other night he would have put on a smile and a glint of mischief in his eyes before venturing out to the tavern to pay homage to the lady there who owns the lot; she's a good friend of his. Any other night, he might have pretended to be happy. Tonight, though, is different.

Thomas turns his attention to the spot of stage that is vacant beside him. The spot where the raven haired man used to stand. He can still hear the soft click-clack of his heeled boots on the wood as he roamed. He can still feel the shivers that once raced up and down his spine, playing with his vertebra, making them jump and dance. Biting his lip, Thomas tears his tear-filled eyes away from the floor beneath his feet.

He crosses to the black curtains that hang from the beams above his head to the table. Holding the violin and the bow in one gentle hand, he reaches out and opens the matte black case, resting his instrument inside on the padding. He places the bow in the groove beside the violin before closing the case, strapping it shut. A heavy breath passes from between his lips and he closes his eyes.

_Cerulean eyes and a freckled smile. Hair black as night and smooth as a dove's wings. Skin delicate and soft, cheeks flush like fresh-blossomed roses. _

Quickly, he opens his eyes again, staring with a hard gaze at the black curtains before taking up his violin case. He tucks it under his arm, smoothing out his blond hair before disappearing from the back stage of the theater and out into the night.

~.~.~

The home of Thomas Joseph Ratliff is of the quaint and comfortable sort while still showing the class and wealth that the man behind the name possesses. It's small, two stories with mahogany floors and a curved staircase within the foyer leading up to the second-floor loft. Kitchen with marble and glossy glass window panes in every room. The front poor has a white-painted rocking chair that he'd gotten from his grandfather.

Violin case set aside on the wardrobe top, Thomas chokes on a heavy sob as he clutches a tumbler of whiskey in his hand. His hair is in a tangled mess, his black coat shucked off to the floor. The cravat around his neck is undone and hanging loosely, but the waistcoat remains synched tight and untouched. His boots he'd left at the door upon entering, his stockings keeping his feet warm to the cold wood of the floor.

He's leaning heavily against the wall, shaking with tears streaming thick down his face. The curtains of the windows are drawn shut to hide the moonlight that tries to stream in. Shadows play in the corners where even the faintest traces can't reach, and Thomas' knees buckle as he slumps to the floor; a touch of whiskey sloshes out, spills over his pales fingers and onto the floor.

"Why…?" He croaks harshly, his voice thick with drink and sorrow. A horrible combination, but he can't stop himself. Not anymore. With all the drinking he's done and the nights he's forgotten about, Thomas could be labeled as an alcoholic musician and he wouldn't give a damn. But those nights don't amount to one that he wishes he could forget and knows that he never will.

"I'm sorry… I'm sorry…" Thomas sobs before downing the last of his whiskey and dropping the tumbler at his side. It clinks and rolls over once, the thick glass edges not even chipping as they land against the hard wood of his bedroom. His mind is racing with images of beautiful oceanic eyes and a dazzling smile and all he wants to do is just forget about it.

"I'm sorry!" He howls again, curling up into a ball. His head is spinning and his vision is blurred with tears and alcohol. Shaking head to toe, Thomas feels like he's going to be ill, but he manages to hold his stomach and the unease back. He coughs through a violent sob before stilling against the wall. Silently listening to the sound of his own broken heart, Thomas whimpers with his gaze towards the ceiling.

He's drunk again, that much is certain. He's drunk and heartbroken as his fingers claw at the buttons of his waistcoat, pulling it free and tossing it aside. It's followed up by the cravat and his tear-stained linen shirt. He keeps his pants and his stockings on as he crawls over to the bed in the corner of the room.

Hooking his fingers into the blanket, Thomas pulls himself onto it, tears streaking down his cheeks, mumbling another softy "I'm sorry".

~.~.~

**:::** Floating along, his wings pass through the edges of the walls before he folds them up, letting them rest against the curve of his back. White tipped and gleaming faintly, the moonlight shines through a few openings in the curtains on the first floor, glowing right through him and on the opposite wall.

He slips down the hallway and into the foyer, gliding up the stairs. He walks silently, his footsteps light and airy. No traces left in the finest layer of dust that he's here. No breath passes his lips as he makes his way to the second floor landing. There is a small door across from the top step and he goes to it slowly.

He reaches for the doorknob, curling his hand as if he's holding it and turns, but glides right on through, staring to the bed on the opposite wall. It faces the bay of windows that show to the west. Upon it, a man with shadowed eyes and messy blond hair is curled up in a ball on the left side, shaking in his sleep with a night terror. He frowns deeply, soft blue eyes softening with grief.

His mouth moves as he says the blond's name. To himself, he can hear it his own voice, but he knows that the violinist can't, really. That, in itself, hurts more than the blond's shaking figure. **:::**

~.~.~

He wakes up in the middle of the night to someone saying his name, but when he looks around the room there is no one. Trying to steady his racing heart, Thomas collapses back into the pillows of his bed, huffing on a breath that his lungs don't seem to want to hold. He had been dreaming again. He hates it when he dreams, because it's the same think over and over. Forever repeating like déjà vu at its worst.

Letting his eyes slip shut, Thomas whimpers quietly, wishing he could go back to sleep. It's not even close to dawn and he knows that he's got a long day ahead of him in the morning. All the same, though, he wants to stay awake. Going back to sleep allows his mind to wander back to those dreams, those memories. And he knows he would much better if he could stay away from them.

_Thomas_. The voice calling to him in his sleep had been so familiar. So painfully familiar that he had been dreaming of a man saying it to him. A man with dark hair and beautiful eyes… A shiver races down his spine as tears sting at his vision, and Thomas curls further in on himself, trembling viciously. The whiskey sits like fire in his stomach and he still feels like he's going to be sick.

A year and this is how he still feels. Every day feels exactly like the one before, leading back to then. The fall of 1803 when the trees had begun to lose their lives and the winds had acquired a sharp, icy nip to their gust. The sunsets were beautiful and the summer flowers were fading, but even in all of this the beauty could not have been appreciated. Not for Thomas, anyway.

"_Adam…" Thomas whispered, clutching the man's hand tightly. Adam's eyes were bruised with illness and his face pale. Freckled lips were chapped and the life from the body was all but beginning to fade entirely. Thomas felt his heart skip and leap into his throat, and he squeezed Adam's hand tighter._

"_Adam… Please," he begged. "Please, you have to hold on." Adam had been sick for a few weeks and showed no signs of getting better…_

_Adam weakly opened his eyes and lifted his gaze to the blond's face, a small and tentative smile spreading them, opening the cracks in the dried skin further. Even so close to death as this, Thomas could not deny that Adam was beautiful. He'd always been with his midnight hair and compassionate blue eyes. _

"_Tommy…" he muttered. Adam was the only one who could ever call Thomas such a nickname and get away with it. "Tommy, it's okay…" _

_Thomas shook his head quickly, the burn of tears beginning to well in the corners of his eyes. It wasn't okay. It would never be okay until Adam was better…_

"Stop it," Thomas hisses, pushing the memory away. Fresh tears stream his face as his shoulders tremble. This isn't the first time he's been haunted by these old images. He knows it won't be the last. "Just stop it! Please, I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" He shouts to himself, sitting up quickly. He pulls his knees to his chest, tucking his face into them, squeezing his eyes shut.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" He sobs. His hair hangs tangled around his head, the roots soaked with sweat and tears. The house is cold, leaving him shivering from grief and chill. But he doesn't care. He doesn't move from his bed.

Daybreak comes and stretches close to midday and Thomas' eyes open into thin slits, glaring harshly at the windows. He must have fallen asleep at some point in the night, for there's a glow of light from behind them and he rolls over, his arm dangling from the edge of the bed. He's finding himself ridden with an ache between the eyes that pulses every time he blinks and an unsettling feeling in his stomach. Tears are crusted into his eyes and dried on his face.

He tears his gaze away from the window and turns it towards the door as a soft knock sounds. He grumbles quietly and the doorknob clicks. In comes his servant girl, Allison. Her red hair and dark eyes are bright compared to the dull of the room and he sighs softly, rubbing his nose.

"Yes, Allison?" He groans, feeling his stomach flip. The girl fidgets with the apron tied around her waist, staring hard at the floor.

"I was just wondering if you were hungry, sir. I've prepared your favorite downstairs…" Her voice is soft and sweet and Thomas sighs, dropping his hand so that it's dangling from the bed again.

"I am, yes. Bring me some tea first…" Allison nods, taking note of the fallen tumbler and the near empty bottle of whiskey on the floor where Thomas had abandoned them the night before. Silently, she crosses to them, gathering them up in her hands before turning to leave. She's just about to walk out the door when she stops, asking a bold question to Thomas.

"It's been a year now, hasn't it, sir?" Thomas freezes in his bed, staring at the floor. His heart gives a violent kick and his stomach rolls, but he merely sighs heavily.

"Yes, Allison. It has." He catches her fidgeting again from the corner of his eye and she turns her young face to him. She opens her mouth to speak and then hesitates, closing it again as if thinking better of what she'd been about to say.

"I'll… have your tea in a moment, sir." She says quickly, vanishing out of the door and down the hall.

It takes a few moments, but she comes back with his tea, made just the way he likes it with two spoonfuls of honey and lemon juice squeezed and stirred in. He drinks it slowly as he wipes the sleep away and fixes his hair. Holding the cup in one hand, he crosses to the curtains and opens them slowly. Daylight streams in and he squints a little. It's brighter than he thought, but that could also be the effects of his hang over.

Sighing heavily, Thomas takes another heart drink, finishing his tea in a few swallows before holding the warm cup loosely in his hand. He turns away from the window, glancing around the shambles of his room before walking out and down the hall to the stairs. He can smell cooked pork and toasted bread and his stomach rumbles as he detects the smell of gravy.

~.~.~

Fed and more sober than he'd been a few hours before, Thomas sits in his study with his violin in hand, bow hanging lazily from his fingertips. He stares out the window with a heavy and dull stare, watching the sun cast shadows on the ground below. The sky is still a rich and lovely blue with white clouds, rust colored leaves tumbling in the air.

He's due for more practice. Despite the performance he gave last night, he has another recital in a week and demands for a new piece are extensive. So, he'd pardoned Allison for her duties of supplying him with food and drink for the rest of the day and insisted that she go into town.

"For what, sir?" She'd asked, fidgeting with her apron again. He's noticed that she always does that whenever he began to recover from a night of drinking, like she was afraid he'd strike her or something. Though he's never laid a hand on her, she harbors this fear like it's always been a part of her life.

"Get yourself some more books or linens for clothes. Yours are getting ragged and I know you've been needing new things. Just go. I wish to be alone for a few hours." He'd told her, handing her a small cloth pouch of money. She'd taken it and pocketed it slowly, watching him carefully.

"Shall I be home at any specific time?"

"Before sundown."

"Yes, sir."

That had been almost two hours ago, and all Thomas has done is sit in his study chair, holding his violin in one loose hand and the bow in the other, watching the light grow brighter outside. Past midday and into the swell of heat. Inside, the house is warm and there's sweat in his hairline, but he doesn't bother with it. He's dressed in a pair of trousers and a shirt, nothing more.

His hair, fortunately, is pulled off of his neck in a small and sloppy ponytail, tied back with a black ribbon to keep most of the heat off of his neck. His knees are spread apart, feet flat on the floor as he stares, unblinking. How many days and nights he's spent in this study in this exact position he can't say anymore. There've been too many to remember. Some he can't because of drinking.

Slowly, almost as if automatically, he lifts his violin and tucks it under his chin, setting his fingers in a chord. Bringing the bow up, he drags it across the strings, playing the tune that spills from his own pathetic grief. It's a wonder his pieces don't all sound the same considering they're pulled from the same place within his heart and mind.

Changing his finger position, Thomas continues playing, eyes closed in concentration as he maps out the notes and chords in his head. He lays them out on mental parchment as he plays, keeping the notes low and somber, full of pain. He bites his lip, dropping his hand low, playing quick and sharp notes before sliding up and playing light, regretful chords.

Part way through, he stands from the chair quietly, so lost in the music he makes that he begins to roam the study. He knows every floorboard, every nail, crack, book, paper, quill and bottle of ink. His body moves somewhat as he plays, the harder notes requiring his shoulder to dip and he torso to sway. He shakes his head sometimes, jaw clenched as tears fall.

As he plays, a chill washes over him and he shivers, his eyes opening slowly. He's still playing, as it is second nature, but his eyes wander and he searches the room. There's nothing and no one there with him. The bookshelves are stacked full in the corner, the chair and the desk sit where they've always sat, but there's nothing. And no one. And yet he's almost sure that he heard something..

A soft, heartbroken note finishes the piece and he pulls his violin away from himself, setting it down on the desk.

~.~.~

**:::** He sits cross-legged on the desk, disturbing nothing that lays beneath him, watching sadly at the sight that is before him. The blond sits in a chair, facing away to the window with his violin. The notes make him silently clench the front of his shirt over his heart, and he longs to reach out and touch the man.

The pain is laced so thick in the melody that he feels himself choking a little, and a tear falls light from his face. He watches with a heartbroken face and tear-filled eyes as the blond stands, continuing the melody as he wanders the room. His brown eyes are closed to the world, his face screwed shut tight with concentration. But he can see in the corners and on the cheeks glistening clear; agony is falling.

"_Tommy…_" He mouths. "_Tommy… Tommy, I'm here…_" **:::**

~.~.~

"Sir?" Allison's voice is soft and quiet as she knocks on the door of the study. Thomas blinks, lifting his head from his arms which he has folded on the wooden surface of the desk. He must have fallen asleep at some point because the sun is setting behind his back and Allison is home.

"Sir, may I come in? I have tea for you…" He grunts in reply, and the door opens slowly. His violin sits across the desk from him where he'd put it, the desk surface littered with pages of sheet music scribbled with notes, chords and ink splatters. Maybe even a few tears here and there, he isn't quite sure.

Allison crosses the study, gently setting a small silver tray down in front of him. There is a small pot of tea, a china cup and saucer, a small dish of honey with a spoon, a wedge of lemon and a few biscuits. He gives her a nod of thanks, pouring himself a cup before realizing she's still standing there in front of him. He glances up at her in question before catching her gaze staring down at the sheets.

"Yes, Allison?" He inquires and she starts to reach forward for the sheets before stopping herself.

"Oh.. W-well, I just.. I… M-may I look at these, sir?" She asks, motioning to the music. Taking a sip of tea, Thomas nods slowly, leaning back in his chair as the redhead gathers the papers into her delicate hands. He looks away from her and back to his tea as he spoons honey and lemon into it, stirring slowly.

Taking a grateful sip of his tea, Thomas moans quietly as it burns the tip of his tongue. Scorching hot, just the way he always likes it. In front of him, Allison is still leafing through the music. Thomas has half a mind to ask if she can even understands it when he hears her humming the melody quietly, note for note. He raises his gaze to her face, watching her eyes scan the music with a touch of awe.

"This is beautiful, sir," she comments after a moment. "Did you write this while I was out today?" Her tone is soft and polite and Thomas closes his eyes, giving her a curt nod in reply.

"This is for your next performance, then, isn't it?" Thomas finds her bold; she never asks this many questions, especially about his music. He eyes her for a moment before allowing a second nod. She opens her mouth to speak, no doubt another inquiry, but he stops her.

"Allison, do you not have a dinner to be preparing?" His tone is a little harsh and he regrets it but he's not going to apologize for it. She's becoming nosy and it's growing tiresome and annoying to him.

Allison's face flushes deeply and she sets the sheet music down on the desk, the parchment rustling quietly as she moves. She folds her hands in front of herself, giving Thomas a soft bow before turning away. Her shoulders are tense and the blond sighs heavily, setting his cup down. "Allison," he mumbles, and the redhead turns back. "Forgive me for being rude. Today has been less than wonderful."

She smiles shyly, "I know. You don't need to apologize, sir." He glances at her for a moment, staring deeply into her rich brown eyes. There's pity therein, and then she leaves.

~.~.~

"_Ah, Thomas. I'd like you to meet someone who is interested in collaborating with you in music. This is Adam Lambert…" His manager motioned to a tall man with dark hair and large, beautiful blue eyes. Thomas found himself unable to breathe for a second as he stared up at the singer dressed in a white shirt and dark blue waist coat, a matching blue overcoat and black trousers. His smile was dazzling._

"The_ Adam Lambert? The famous opera singer?" Thomas inquired, looking between his manager and the man before him. Adam gave him a friendly nod, extending his right hand for a greeting. Thomas took it quickly and shook, relishing in the warmth of Adam's palm._

"_And you are Thomas Joseph Ratliff, renowned violinist and composer. I've heard much about you. Some folks around here and other cities say you're a prodigy." Adam said and Thomas felt his cheeks heat up._

"_Funny, because they say the same things about you, Mister Lambert," Thomas mused, grinning. Adam flushed a little and smiled back. _

"_Well, it's a pleasure to finally meet you. It was a lot easier getting a hold of your manager than I thought it would be, considering your prowess of weekly recitals and touring…" Thomas snorted softly, slipping his hands into his pockets._

"_Mr. Pittman is a man of good taste, Mister Lambert. Besides, with your talent, it's truly a wonder he didn't jump you when you contacted him," Thomas eyed Monte with a smirk and the older man rolled his eyes and smiled warmly. "But I am curious; why would you wish to work with me? There are hundreds of renowned musicians who would die to work with you." _

_Adam flashed a devilish smile that had Thomas shivering in his leather shoes. The look in his eyes added to the weight of the smile and the heated gaze from the man made Thomas' stomach clench and coil like a tight ball. His heart skipped as he stared back into those cerulean eyes, and a kind of want he'd never known before gripped him like a deadly snake._

"_I've got my reasons, Mister Ratliff. Just as you have yours for agreeing to my proposal that we work together…" Thomas blinked once, cracking a wide smile at the singer before shaking his hand again._

Blinking his eyes, Thomas stares up at the ceiling of his room. His hand feels warm from when he'd shaken Adam's over a year ago and his heart is still skipping beats. Chills course through his veins as tears well in his eyes. Rolling over, he tucks his arm under his head and wraps the other around his waist, tears spilling out onto his pillow.

Sniffling quietly, Thomas closes his eyes again, hoping to get more sleep that's not tormented by dreams of Adam. But even in his wake, Thomas sees images of Adam's smile, how his mouth stretches and his teeth shine in the light as he laughs. How his eyes glisten. Shivering, Thomas curls tighter into a ball, soft yet broken sobs falling from his lips.

"Adam," he chokes. "Adam, I'm sorry… I'm so sorry…"

~.~.~

The afternoon of the next day, Thomas is sitting at his desk in the study when Allison's soft knock sounds at the door. He mumbles for her to come in and listens as the door swings open. But instead of the soft pit-patter of Allison's leather shoes on the hardwood floors, it's heavy footfalls of boots. Thomas lifts his gaze and sees a man he hasn't spoken to in quite some time.

Still harboring the slight beer belly and goatee, Monte looks as great as ever in a black overcoat and navy waistcoat with a crisp white linen shirt and cravat. Dark pants and his boots as well, he holds a long, thin cane in one hand. His eyes glisten in the afternoon light and Thomas grins as best he can before standing from his desk.

"Monte," he says, walking around and giving the man a hug. "It's been too long, my friend." Thomas tries to sound as lively and friendly as possible, but even to his own ears it sounds flat. And he knows without a doubt that Monte's going to catch it and question him about it. He just clings to the hope that the interrogation will wait.

"That is has, Thomas, that it has," Monte agrees with a tender and fatherly smile. "I'd have expected you to roam about and make your way into the European colonies, not stick around here."

Thomas cracks a small smile and lifts a shoulder in a shrug. His hair is sloppily pulled back and he's wearing last night's pants, but he was considerate enough to put on a clean shirt before getting straight to work. And now, as he thinks about it, he wishes he would have bathed first but is thankful that he thought of the shirt at the very least.

"Then again, I should not have expected so much," Monte comments, glancing to the desk that's littered with sheets of music. Some pages are so scrawled over that they're a sodden, still-wet-ink mess and staining through onto the wood beneath. Others are crisp drafts that have a few marks here and there. Few are finals, and even then Thomas isn't sure about them. "Always working, aren't you, Thomas?"

Thomas allows a tiny chuckle and a nod as he follows Monte to the desk. His old manager rifles through the dry pages, his eyes scanning the music written upon. Thomas goes to his chair and sits back down, folding his hands in front of his face as Monte inspects the sheets silently. He, much like Allison had, hums the melodies softly before setting the pages down.

"It's very…somber, isn't it?" He inquired, and Thomas shrugs again. A lot of his work has been somber but he's never really cared enough to change anything about it. "…You're still grieving, aren't you?"

Thomas frowns, raising an eyebrow before giving Monte a scrutinizing look. "Grieving?" He questions. "Why would I be grieving? Does a somber composition suddenly elude that I'm upset about something?" He knows he's being defensive. More than is necessary. He should have remembered that Monte reads him well. Just like Adam…

"Thomas, you know exactly what I'm talking about. It's been a year and you're still composing your own heartache and playing it to the masses." Monte's eyes are narrowed and firm, but they're not cold. "This isn't good for you, Thomas…"

"How is it not good for me? I'm making profit that matches what I made before, the people love my music, how is it not good for me, Monte? I am fine." Thomas snips softly, clenching his hands tightly together. He knows where this is going to go and he really doesn't want to venture down the path. But Monte's been a stubborn old fool just as he, himself, has.

"Thomas… This isn't like you. You used to be so happy and energetic. I can understand that Adam's passing was hard—it was hard for all of us—but this is almost ridiculous… He wouldn't want this of you…" At this point, Thomas snaps.

"How do you know what Adam would and wouldn't want of me? Adam didn't know me and neither do you! He was my business partner and you our manager, and nothing more!" Thomas hisses, digging his nails into the leather of his chair. Monte's eyes widen some and he takes a step back.

"Thomas… You know that's not true. Adam was your friend… he cared about you more than anything and so do I! I worry about you! I come pay a visit and your servant, Allison, tells me you drink most every night?" Thomas looks away, clenching his jaw. Allison's never one to keep her mouth shut. "She says you're bitter and you're always locking yourself up in this room…"

"I don't need your pity," Thomas hisses angrily, glaring up at Monte. "I get that enough from my servants, I don't need it from you!"

"Thomas—" the blond shakes his head and waves his hand. He's tired of all of this and as much as he knows he's going to regret this later, he can't deal with it right now.

"Get out." Monte looks baffled.

"Tommy—"

"_Out!_"

Monte's back straightens and he turns away, slowly walking to the study door. Thomas sits with his gaze fixed upon the surface of his desk; upon all of the pages of his misery inked out before him as Monte walks away. He hears the door open before Monte's footsteps pause. He doesn't lift his head.

"Adam told me something the night before he died…" He begins, looking over at the blond. Thomas doesn't meet his gaze. He continues to glare at the pages. "He said that you hadn't come around since the few nights before… And he told me to tell you that he loves you. Even if for the last time."

~.~.~

"_You were brilliant out there, you know," Thomas said gently as he tucked his violin away in its case. Adam stood beside him, drinking a small cup of tea that had been brought to him for after the performance._

"_As were you," Adam replied with a smile after finishing his tea. Thomas flushed deeply and snapped the case shut, holding it under his arm. Despite being older, he had originally found it rather irritating that he had to look up to the singer whenever they were standing side by side with one another. But as the time passed and they grew to know each other, he realized he truly didn't mind it._

"_Please, Adam.. I'm not half as good as you are. Those cheers and compliments were all for you." Thomas murmured softly as Adam fell in step beside him. They began to walk towards the back doors and out into the night to make their way home._

"_I would beg to differ, actually. A good load of them were saying that 'Mister Ratliff was quite exquisite this evening' and that 'his chords are simply rich and exotic'…" Thomas laughed at the mocked accents Adam put on, grinning at the flourishes of his hand as they walked._

"_They only said that because it was a nice blend beneath your voice.. I mean, let's face it, Adam, you were perfect enough to sing in the dark. All they needed was to listen…" Adam smiled softly at the blond and Thomas felt his heart kick in his chest._

"_Really? In the dark?" He inquired and Thomas nodded once. The smile that stretched across Adam's face proved to be one that questioned what context Adam was speaking of. "We should consider that next time."_

~.~.~

"_Thomas?" Adam's voice was quiet in the stillness of the house. Thomas sat in a leather chair, elbows tucked on the rests, hands folded together in front of his face. They'd been partnered in performances for the past two months and the sales had been more impressive together than most other impressive duets. Between Thomas' violin play and Adam's voice, many considered them iconic._

"_Thomas, what's wrong?" Adam meant well enough by the question but Thomas just jerked violently, burying his face into his hands as he wept. Everything was wrong. He'd been engaged to be married in a week's time with a woman he'd loved since childhood. This house of his was meant to be theirs as they had children and grew old. _

_And now she was gone._

"_Thomas… Talk to me… Tommy—"_

"_My fiancée is gone… She left. Left the ring I gave her on the table of what was to be our home and was gone…" Thomas' voice was so soft and so broken that it seemed to make Adam cringe a little. The raven haired singer took two long strides forward, kneeling down at Thomas' feet, resting his hands on the violinist's knees._

"_Tommy… I'm so sorry…" Adam murmured gently to him, reaching up to take one of his hands. Thomas let the younger singer take it, squeezing gently when Adam squeezed him first. "Tommy, it's going to be alright.. you'll see." Thomas shook his head._

"_How is it going to be alright, Adam? My fiancée left me!" 'Because she said she could never compare to Adam. She left a note and it said I'll never be as good as he is for you.' But he didn't say that to Adam. He should have._

"_It's hard, I know, Tommy. But it will be okay. In the end, everything will be okay, I promise you."_

~.~.~

**::: **He slips through the darkness of the house, his wings folded tight against his back as he wanders. The candles have long since been extinguished and there's a sort of chill rushing through the wood that even makes him shiver a little. His eyes dart back and forth before he climbs the stairs of the foyer up to the second floor. He's not sure how many times he's made this trip, but it seems to be the same every night.

Walking down the short hall, he slips through the wooden frame of Thomas' bedroom door, finding the blond tossing and turning in his sleep. He frowns deeply, floating slowly through the air, his feet gliding across the floor as he goes. Thomas is curled away from him, shivering despite the blankets that are mounded over him.

He slips up onto the bed, the mattress showing no signs of a second body climbing onto it, and he reaches out to touch Thomas' shoulder. The blond shivers again as his hand grips the material of his shirt for a moment before passing through. Sighing heavily, he withdraws his hand and shifts, kneeling beside the blond.

"_Tommy…_" He whispers as the blond rolls over, facing him a little more. His face is written in anguish and misery, tears streaking his face in sleep. He feels his heart clench in his chest, but it's more of a phantom memory than a true sensation. Even still, he clutches his shirt as he stares at the blond.

"_Oh, Tommy…_" Adam mumbles, wishing he could pull the blond into his arms and never let him go. "_Tommy, I'm sorry…_" **:::**

~.~.~

"_Adam, please, don't… Don't go, don't do this…" Thomas begged helplessly as he clung to Adam's pale and weak hand. The raven haired man smiled softly, his eyes tired and dull. "Please, Adam! You need to hang on, please!"_

"_It's okay…" Adam whispered softly and Thomas just shook his head again, tears filling his brown eyes and spilling down his cheeks. It wasn't going to be okay because the doctors had said Adam wasn't getting better. They'd said he only had so much time before he passed on. Before he died… Thomas grabbed Adam's hand in his, squeezing tightly and waiting for Adam to squeeze back. _

_He did, but weakly._

"_Bullshit, it's okay!" Thomas exclaimed after a moment. "The doctors say you..won't recover… Goddamnit, Adam, please! You promised me that everything would be okay! _You promised_!" Thomas's eyes were burning with tears and they spilled in never ending streams. He was shaking lightly as Adam coughed into his own shoulder, his chest heaved and collapsed with breath._

_Adam had been caught with a fever from weeks before that had quickly grown and spread to an infection in his lungs and throat, rendering his almost speech and breathless. He was still able to speak, but his voice was soft and raspy like a snake's dying hiss. However, the breathing was getting harder and harder to manage every day._

"_Tommy.. please, baby," Adam always called him baby. "It's okay. I'm not afraid, Tommy, and neither should you.." Thomas shook his head quickly, his tears falling down onto his and Adam's hands like raindrops._

"_Adam, you can't… You promised…"_

"_I'll see you again…" Adam promised, smiling tenderly._

"_Adam! Damnit, please!"_

"_I love you, Tommy.."_

"Adam!" Thomas shouts, sitting straight up in his bed as tears cascade down his face. Outside it's storming, pitch black with the night and he's shaking head to toe like a leaf in the wind. His teeth chatter in his head and he feels like he's going to be sick. His stomach keeps rolling over.

A year and this is how he still feels. Like every waking moment he's going to see Adam's face in the back of his mind and he's going to start crying. That he's going to vomit with such intense agony and no matter how many times he begs Adam to hang on in his sleep, he knows the singer doesn't. He knows that Adam dies. He knows that Adam left him without hearing the truth.

"I'm sorry!" He howls into the dark of his room, digging his nails into his arms as he curls up to stay warm. It's freezing, almost. If there were light, he is certain he would be able to see his own breath in the room. But there is none, so he can't. Instead he sits and he shivers and cries.

"God, Adam please… Please, forgive me. Forgive me for not telling you…" Thomas begs. Muted to his own ears he can hear footsteps coming down the hall before the door to his bedroom opens. He doesn't need to look to know that it's Allison and that she's hear to comfort him. Such nights like these happen often where the dreams and memories are so vivid that he wakes up screaming Adam's name.

Allison's warm arms loop around him and she tucks Thomas' head onto her shoulder, holding him tightly. Even with her heat, he's shivering violently, clinging to her night dress as he weeps. Her work-callused fingers run gently through his hair as she hums to soothe him. But it fails because Thomas shakes harder with his grief, his arms wrapped tight around her waist.

~.~.~

**:::** Adam hurries through the house at the sounds of Thomas' wails, whimpering softly to himself. His wings are shut so tight against his back that the joints and ligaments in his shoulders are beginning to ache with the strain, but he can't find it within himself to care. Thomas, his baby, is grieving and he'll be damned eternally if he doesn't do something this time.

His feet are silent against the wood floor of the staircase, his movements swift and graceful. He doesn't feel exhausted or out of breath as he reaches the landing and runs down the hall to the bedroom door. Out of habit, he reaches for the doorknob and grips it for a moment before simply passing through the wood.

Upon the bed he sees Thomas clenching tight to one of his servants. Allison, if he remembers correctly. He frowns deeply and floats over to them, the sounds of Thomas' sobs ringing in his ears and making his soul quiver. Thomas is crying heavily and to wrapped up in his anguish to notice, but Allison does and she shivers as Adam draws nearer.

"Shh, it's okay, sir. It's okay, it's just a dream…" Allison murmurs gently to him. Adam wishes he could be the one holding Thomas, but he can't.

"_Tommy…_" He whispers, moving closer to them. Allison shivers again and she looks over in his direction, but she doesn't seem to see him. He could let her, but he doesn't want to. Not yet, anyway.

"I'm sorry, Adam!" Thomas shouts again, his body violently jerking with sobs. Adam bites his lip, sliding up onto the bed next to Allison and Thomas both. The redheaded servant shivers again, staring in his direction as she had before. Her eyes are wide and searching but he knows she won't see anything.

"Sir, calm down.. it's alright… Thomas, please!" Allison nearly begs, holding him tightly. Adam swallows the lump from his throat, shifting closer still before unfolding his wings from his back. Slowly he wraps and tucks them around Allison and Thomas as if holding them. Allison shivers again, snapping her gaze over to him before she gasps. He knows she can't see much, but she knows it's him. **:::**

~.~.~

"Thomas.. sir, look! Please!" Allison begs him, shaking him a little. Thomas shakes his head, tucking himself closer in her arms. Tears are relentless and he's shaking from the memories of watching Adam fade away before him. He never watched the singer die, but he imagines it well enough to haunt him for the rest of his life.

Even with Allison's insistent begging, Thomas does feel a chill wash over him. A chill that rushes down his spine and sets his nerves on fire before freezing them solid. He's felt this kind of chill before in this exact pattern; like arms spreading around him and holding him close. Sniffling heavily, Thomas wipes his note on the sleeve of his shirt before looking up at Allison.

Strangely, her eyes are locked on something else entirely. Something that's away from him. Frowning a little, Thomas whimpers quietly before turning his head. In the darkness of his bedroom with the storm howling outside, there's a soft light that's shining nearby. So close that it seems to be enveloping himself and Allison both. It's hard to make out anything at first, but the longer he stares upon this light, the more solidified it becomes before his eyes.

The first thing he notices is the shape and how it resembles that if a man. His arms are outstretched and curled around Thomas—and only Thomas. But it seems that there are wings as well, or something like wings, that are folded around the both of them. Shaggy, long hair hangs around the figures chin, and there are faint details of the face: plump, wide lips and a large nose. Slanted blue eyes and—

Blue eyes?

Thomas stares long and hard up at the figure that seems to be holding him. He feels both chilled and warmed, between this lighted shape and Allison's own flesh and blood. He reaches up slowly, mystified by this glowing light that becomes more and more seemingly solid by the moment. His fingertips inch towards what he makes out to be the jaw of the face and his skin tingles as it touches the light.

"_Tommy…_" It whispers and Thomas gasps loudly, fresh tears filling his eyes.

"…A-Adam?" In a flash, Thomas has to shield his eyes for a moment, letting the blinding wave warm his flesh before dying out. Cautiously, he drops his hand again, truly seeing Adam before him. His skin and clothes are translucent and he shines, but the colors of his entire being are vivid and pure. Snow white wings are wrapped around them from Adam's back.

"_I'm here, Tommy…_" Adam whispers again. Thomas chokes on a sob, instinctively leaning into Adam. Much to his comfort, he falls against Adam's chest, shaking heavily with relief as well as anguish. Adam's arms wrap loosely around his frame, holding him close. "_I promised you, didn't I_?"

Thomas nods once, weeping into Adam's shirt. He notices though that his tears pass through Adam's body and land into the blanks beneath them. He wonders how it is possible that he could be clutching Adam's soul while his tears fall through, but decides against questioning it and instead clings closer. "You did… God, you did…"

"_Tommy… don't cry, please? Please…_" Thomas wails softly anyway. "_Tommy… shh… Tommy…_"

"God, Adam, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry!" Adam's fingers run gently through Thomas' hair, pulling it out of the loose ponytail it had been tied into. Allison is sitting quietly beside them, watching with wide eyes. Thomas shivers in Adam's hold, crying heavily. "I'm sorry I never told you!"

"_Tommy.. it's okay. It's alright, Tommy.. I know. You don't have to apologize anymore.._" Adam whispers softly, pressing a cold kiss to Thomas' temple.

"But I never… I never told you! I never.." Adam presses his fingers to Thomas' lips, staring down at him with soft, compassionate eyes.

"_It's alright… I know, Tommy. I know._" Thomas watches with wide eyes as Adam bends forward, pressing his lips gently to his own. Fire seems to explode when their mouths touch and Thomas moans loudly, digging his nails into Adam's hair as tightly as he can. Adam's tongue splits the seam of his mouth, cold and warm setting his nerves into a frenzy of sensations.

All too soon, though, Adam pulls away and Thomas can see that his image is flickering and fading. Spasms of light flash and dull and the violinist whimpers. Adam is leaving again. "Adam.. please, don't… I need you, please!" He begs, clutching to Adam's shirt. He can feel it disappearing.

"_Tommy.._" Adam says with a smile. "_I'm always with you. Right here,_" like a cliché novel, Adam touches Thomas' chest over his heart, and Thomas feels like crying again. "_I never left you. Not for a second. And I won't, because I promised you._"

"Adam…" Thomas begins, but Adam presses another fading kiss to his lips. The sensations are dull.

"_I love you._" Choking on a sob, Thomas leans up and kisses Adam for as long and as hard as he can muster, clinging desperately to the angel.

"I love you… I love you." With a smile and a tear rolling down his cheek, Adam touches Thomas' face before fading into the dark, leaving the blond violinist feeling weightless and free.


End file.
